The Lost & Forgotten
by theheartsbeat
Summary: A hundred years have passed since the fall of Mirkwood, and the evil forces that claimed it still thrives. A mysterious woman comes forward to the Forgotten King, Thranduil, saying she will aid him reclaim his lost kingdom and restore his place on the throne... but at what price?


Chapter One: The Red Terror

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><p><em>Italics<em> for words in Elvish (Sindarin)

**Bold** for words in Black Speech

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><p>Screams of the dying filled the night sky, the smoke of burning trees and flesh along with it. The clash of swords and bangs of shields bashing into one another rang in the elf-boy's pointed ears, enough to make tears well up in his eyes from the pain. He bolted, jumping over the skulls with shreds of skin still stretched over the ivory bone, but he couldn't identify any of them. The only ones he recognized were those of orc remains, their wild eyes glaring at him even in death.<p>

The young elf turned the corner to meet the sight of red blood gushing from the stump of where an orc's arm used to be and of an elf knight's heart being ripped out of his chest. With horror-struck eyes and a silent scream on his lips, the boy dodged the thick arms of another orc trying to grab him, to suffocate him or bash his head in or whatever the orc wished.

Now past the cluster of battling orcs and elves, the boy was met with spiraling stairs that were so familiar to him, but basked in the ruddy light of fire and a coat of fresh blood; they looked unfamiliar, unknown.

Pushing his frantic thoughts aside, the young elf dashed up the case of stairs, sidestepping the rivers of red that flowed down them. In his heart, the elf-boy cried out the wish of death upon the orcs that had appeared out of nowhere, raided his home and stolen so many lives in such little time. He hated that his tiny body didn't have the strength to fight off the invaders, that his legs were so thin that they couldn't carry him faster.

He continued on past the stairs into a maze of hallways where more bodies were littered, more orcs than elves, giving the boy hope. Panting from the fear that plagued his mind, the young elf pushed himself harder, his small hands balled into fists, the scrape on his left cheek gushing from the pace of his heart.

He reached a wide walkway that was free of rails but had tall marble pillars, the rest bleeding out into the scene of the fire-blazed night sky, the trees that had become pyres. One thing captured his senses: the huge oak door leading into his mother's bedroom was cracked slightly.

The boy's breath evened as he stepped closer, his keen ears listening for anything. Suddenly, he heard a wet cough.

"_Amil_!" The boy cried, bursting through the door, tears still wet on his cheeks. A gasp left his mouth.

The boy found his dear mother, lying on the floor of the chamber with a dagger made by orc hands deeply embedded in his stomach, blood that shined black pooling on the rug beneath her.

His mother's pearly hair, stained with the ebony liquid was arrayed in a halo around her, shimmered in the moonlight that beamed from the window across the room. Clasped in his mother's left hand was a silver sword with dark runes carved into them. The boy was familiar with this sword, it had always been in the stone hands that was elsewhere in the palace, underneath the watchful, cold gaze of the statue of his great-grandfather. It was stained with the same substance that cascaded from the older elleth's wounds. The bodies of the orcs the sword had felled counted in the twenties, all scattered throughout the room.

"_Amil_..." The young elf whispered, his voice clogged with emotion.

Slowly, his mother's eyes opened, revealing the ice blue irises he had inherited, although the ones that peered back at him were glazed over, almost lifeless.

"My son," The older elf said gently, as if to comfort her child, "It seems our enemies have finally defeated us."

The child was taken aback. His mother had always been the one who held the most hope in the future, the most ambition. The child felt himself being pulled closer to his fallen mother, his knees folding to the floor.

"_Amil_, don't go," The smaller elf wept, a fresh wave of tears coating his face. His tiny form crumpled beside his mother, his hands aching to comfort her. His gaze landed on the orc dagger. "You have time to heal, you're so strong, it won't even scar."

Another haunting cough came from the older elf, a splatter of blood landing on the front of her pale green armor. "Poison runs through my veins as we speak." She gravely replied. She reached up and caressed her young son's wet cheek. "You are the only heir that I have produced in my seven thousand years of life, _onya_. I do not regret a single moment of it, knowing that I've built a home, a cleft of safety, for you." The elf closed her eyes, a deep sigh resonating throughout the room. "The time for you to grow is now, I fear. You're so young, _onya,_ it is not fair."

The old elf tried to raise her left hand, where the sword lied, but was unable to. "Take up the sword."

The child's eyes widened, scared to even move a muscle. "_Amil_, I do not-"

"Please."

Complying with his mother's last wishes, the child reached across his mother's dying body and, with trembling hands, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the silver sword.

"_Onya_, my child, take this sword and take back this kingdom."

"When, _amil_? How? How can I-I..." The child's voice shook and failed him when he tried to continue speaking.

"One day, you will know the time. But I cannot give that to you. All I can give you... is this last fragment of safety."

"It will keep me safe?" The child asked as he held it coldly in his hands, his damp eyes on his mother.

The ancient elf broke with a sob. "No. There is no safety to be found in a sword. A sword does not bring life... it only harbors death. It is a responsibility... a curse. I have given you a weight for our people's survival, _onya_." Her poisoned heart shuttered at her next words. "I hope someday you will forgive me."

"No, mother. I forgive you now! Just don't leave me." The elf-boy cried, forgetting the sword and letting it clatter to the ground. His small hands grabbed at his mother's armored chest, tears dripping to the metal, mixing with the dark orc blood.

The old elf's dull eyes gently stooped, her hand that held her son's face slipping back to her side. Her eyelids closed for the final time, and the young boy listened to her last breath.

Silence crept into the chamber.

"_Amil_?" The young elf murmured, timidly pushing against his mother's chest. Seeing her not stir, the boy let his screams be unleashed, pounding the ground with his fists and mumbling through his tears.

Suddenly, he heard heavy footfalls fill the hall outside, the putrid stench of rot wafting into the room.

Orcs.

The silver-headed boy shot up with the sword in hand, his light footsteps undetectable underneath the sound of orc grunts. The little elf dove outside on the balcony that overlooked the forest, hiding behind a stone pillar. He could hear the rumbling voices of the monsters outside of the chamber's door.

"I smell the little rat in here." One voice said, chuckling maniacally. The elf was able to understand them due to their black speech being broken with hazy elvish.

The elf-boy heard the massive oak door being pushed open, the orc remains that were piled behind it sliding across the marble floor sickeningly. Three pairs of feet thumped against the ground, sending its tremors throughout the small elf's bones.

An annoyed groan came from one orc. "It was the stench of the elf there, numb-skull. And it's already dead."

A snort echoed throughout the chamber. "Is that the queen of **Taubûrz**? Worthless maggot. May she rot in Hell."

The small hand of the young elf tightened over the hilt of the sword.

"Ohh..." Two voiced chorused, but were far from any lovely music-making. "So it seems."

With relief, the boy heard the footsteps turn to go.

"Wait."

The elf's blood iced over.

"The blood of this elf is poisoned. Most likely from Unqualë oil, rumored to turn the blood of the victim black and make them reek of pure death. But the smell that passes now... it is untainted. Its little heart still beats."

An electric frenzy coursed through the air, making the hairs on the elf's neck stand up. His keen ears heard the saliva drip from the orc's hungry mouths, their nostrils flaring for the upcoming feast. The hunt was on now, and he was the one being hunted.

The young elf sprinted to the edge of the balcony, already knowing how far he would fall before he landed into a bramble of Moonflower vines. He threw his thin leg over the railing of the terrace, ready to pitch himself forward.

Before he could, thick arms wrapped themselves around his torso, pulling him back off the rail. The young elf let out a scream, squirming like a worm as the orc's brawny appendages constricted the boy's chest. His pale face flushed purple from the lack of oxygen. The orcs hot breath reeked of decaying meat and moldy dairy.

"Oi! Burzub! Gabda found the source of the infestation!"

Through his fuzzy vision and the twinkling dots that framed it, the boy-elf saw the two other orcs rush forward as Gabda turned to show off his trapped prey. The emerald gleam of the armor that covered his mother's body shone on the edge of his sights. His mother... lifeless... dead...

_Gone_.

As if an instinct finally clicked in his brain, the boy tightened his hold on the sword and twisted it, arching his hand that when he finally flicked his wrist, the blade found itself buried in Gabda's stomach.

A sharp howl pierced the air, a noise that imitated the shriek of a wounded reptile. The arms that held the boy prisoner released him, clawed hands hovering over his wound.

"That damn** karanzol**! I will **barash** your bones with my teeth!" The orc with his dark innards spilling from the gash threatened, black blood spurting from between his yellowed teeth.

The elven child did not listen as he retrieved his sword from the orc's body, the sick snap of a spine being sliced coming from within. The orc uttered more curses that were laced with screams. The child quickly silenced him with a beheading.

The two other orcs drove towards elf, but as a sheen of a cold, calculating entity possessing his blue eyes, he hacked them down in three seconds flat. After the last orc said his last profanities and gave up his sad, pitiful ghost, the young elf dashed across the room to the door, not daring to glance again at the corpse of his mother. All he noticed in the corner of his eye was a moth fluttering around, its wings beating the air.

The boy elf paused by the door and listened for any more footfalls of enemies, to hear none. Pressing his palm against the wood of the door, he said his last goodbyes to his home, the Palace of Mirkwood, the Halls of Greenleaves, Home of the Wood-Elves.

He fought tears back as he exited the room, vowing to return one day. He swore on his mother's name that he would.

The elf youth's footsteps gently echoed down the corridor, dissipating into the silence. That was when dread seeped into the child's bones.

It was silent. Completely and utterly... quiet.

The earth began to quake. The elf boy was thrown off of his feet, landing on his back in pain. His sword landed beside him. Dazed, the elf clamored his way back up, shaking his shuttering thoughts away.

Even in his delusional and befuddled state, his hands found themselves clamped onto the hand-and-a-half-long hilt, twisting them with anticipation. The tremors of the earth died down, but not the boy's fears. He had heard legends speaking of such great power racking along the earth's faults, fire soon charring what had not been destroyed.

He knew of this fear.

That was when the ear-splicing roar erupted from the boy's left, who covered his pointed ears in torment. Heat radiated from the roar, a brimstone-powered source of destruction the center of the shriek. Between the pillars that gave the scene of the fire-filled sky, the boy, in horror, saw a black shape soar high above him, silhouetted by red, orange, and yellow.

He knew of this black creature.

The darkened figure dipped deeply, plunging to the earth like a falling star. Another roar swallowed the night. And in his pain, the boy knelt, hands again protecting his sensitive hearing. He heard scaled wings ripping through the air, sailing closer to him. Thundering bellows ripped through the air, beating wings stirring terrible things into the star-ridden sky.

"The Sapling Prince of Mirkwood," the great and terrible dragon sneered, its brilliant red eyes on the boy. All of the dragon was dyed crimson; its scales shined with ruby luster, his spikes ablaze like a fire, his claws dripped with red blood, his huge scarlet wings covered the span of half of the cavern quarters of the queen. His pearly fangs were a stark contrast against the endless red, crescents of white that were sharper than swords.

The great mass of the beast settled on the rooftop of the tower, his talons wrapping around the pillars closest to the elf. The gargantuan head of the beast lowered itself to the left of the walkway, his fire-rimmed eyes peering between the pillars to the silver-haired boy.

"The young Heir of **Taubûrz**, Inheritor of Trees, King of the Forest... Thranduil!" The dragon cried to the highest of heavens, to the deepest of the hells. He meant to make fool of the elves of the forest, the ones who secluded themselves and delved into nature. The ones who killed fires, brought death to flame! He meant to extinguish them all!

Thranduil let go of a cry when he heard his name said by the evil dragon. How dare he say his name such as! Not even the lowest of creatures deserved to have their name course the forked tongue of this crimson beast, with such hate and disgust!

He knew of this hate.

"It's almost sad to see all of this land wasted, scorched to ashes... but then again... its ruin would make a fine home."

Prince Thranduil hardened his hold on his sword, an indescribable feeling of anger coursing through him. He bared his teeth at the beast.

"Delgaranor!" He screamed, brandishing his silver weapon. "Red Terror of the North! I promise to the ends of the earth that you will die! As long as I am alive, you will be hunted and you will be brought down! I am King of Mirkwood, and I plant the seed of hope!"

The dragon wasted no time sparking the embers slumbering deep inside of him, rousing the flame that kept him alive. He poured the fire that had taken the lives of many onto the new King of Mirkwood, a river of red to consume the elf whole.

A sudden, unexpected blow to the dragon's right side sent him tumbling, the aim of his flames still reaching its mark, but only half of it.

The young king howled in pain as the red seared the entire left side of his body, blackening the sinews of muscle and eating its way to bone. His cries resonated in the night, his body convulsing as he fell to the ground, fire swallowing up his flesh. Blinded by the pain and his senses involved with the sheer, excruciating agony of flame, he did not feel the gentle talons of a flying creature pick him up, the others that came with him getting charred by the dragon they sought to distract.

The screams of great eagles rang out, the thunderous barrage of a red dragon covering them.

Thranduil only recalled the shroud of black that covered his eyes, the sensation of a never-ending fire burning in his heart.

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><p>A Hundred Years Later...<p>

A gentle hush fell over the land, a calming breeze coming off of the foaming sea wake. It was early morning, the coral skies accented with dusty purple and orange enulfing the stars high above. Reflected in the blue waters of the sea, the fading moon waned in brightness. A wave softly lapped over the white sands of the beach. A gull crouched on a smooth stone and gives a caw before flapping its wings and soaring off into the morning sky.

With another lulling tide pulling in, this one receded as a hand shot out of the water, slamming down into the wet sand and clawed its way inland. The other hand crawled out of the water shakily, pale arms flexing to pull the rest of the body out of the sea. The light hair that clung to the sides of a white face shone in the rising sun, liquid running down creamy smooth skin.

Finally, after pulling itself all the way out of the blue ocean, the body lied limp with exhaustion, sudden bursts of coughing causing salt water to stream out its nose and mouth. Its rib cage bloats and deflates, the ivory bones lying under the canvas of white looking alike driftwood that had washed up on the shore with the body.

Another violent cough scattered the silence, scaring off all seagulls in a half-mile radius, eventually settling into forced air coursing through its mouth and raw lungs. Salt scorched every inch of its mouth and throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Despite the pain and labor of breathing, the body relaxed enough to calmly examine its surroundings; the tall tan grass that swayed with the breeze, the small pink shells dotting the white sand, the crimson crabs that scoured the bay for food, the gulls soaring high above in the warm morning air, the towering cliffs that were shadowed mysteriously...

A fragment of a memory sparked over the eyes that lingered on the tops of distant bluffs, a dull sense of longing and wonder gripping them.

"I-I've... always wanted t-to... see the... them... up close..." The frail voice was able to mutter. A gentle laugh came from them, still eyeing the looming cliffs with curiosity. Slowly, the tender eyes stooped with the weight of exhaustion, closing with a flutter and a sigh.

"And what lies beyond them..."

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><p><em>Amil<em>- Elvish (Sindarin) for 'mother'.

_Onya_- Elvish (Sidarin) for 'my child'.

**Taubûrz**- Black Speech for 'Mirkwood'.

**karanzol**- Black Speech for 'elf'.

**barash**- Black Speech for 'crush'.

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><p><strong>Allllll right!<strong>

**This story is basically my own twist of how Thranduil (my favorite character EVER) came to the throne! So, I hope it was a good start of a very epic journey that involves danger, loss, friendship, and love.**

**When I first had my thought about a fic involving Thranduil (did I mention his my favorite character?). So, I just started writing about a young Thranduil (I hope I've mentioned he's my favorite character) who is caught up in an orc raid that happened in Mirkwood.**

**As I carried on, I remembered a part in The Desolation of Smaug that involved Thranduil uncovering (or creating) an illusion that shows him with awful burns that had eaten away part of his face and had given him a blind left eye. He talks about dragon-fire, like its caused some great calamity in his life.**

**But I wondered... did Smaug do that?**

**Seeing as my question wasn't answered in the movie, I'm taking the liberty to explain how he got those burns: Delgaranor. A red dragon that doesn't necessarily crave gold, just the beautiful color of fire. His name actually means 'Red Terror' (cool, right?)**

**So, that's the first chapter, and I hope you Follow so you can have some more Thraduil action. And don't you want to know what in the h****eck came out of the ocean? :D**

**Wait... did I tell you Thranduil is my favorite character?**

**Until next time!**

**~theheartsbeat**


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